


For a Glimmer of Hope

by Fangirlingmanaged



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Inspired by Music, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers is Bad at Feelings, The boys have a long way to go, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 01:56:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12288786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fangirlingmanaged/pseuds/Fangirlingmanaged
Summary: The Avengers are back to a house that no longer feels like home.Steve is back to a house missing its most important occupant. He's wandering the halls one night when he finds what he'd been looking for. He thinks this might be his chance to start mending bridges, but what he finds is not what he expected. It is worse than he could have expected. His ma had once told him that everyone has a breaking point. No matter how strong they thought themselves to be.Even Tony Stark breaks, in the end.





	For a Glimmer of Hope

**Author's Note:**

> Based on Pray by Sam Smith  
> "You won't find me in church (no) reading the Bible (no)  
> I am still here and I'm still your disciple  
> I'm down on my knees, I'm beggin' you, please  
> I'm broken, alone, and afraid  
> I'm not a saint, I'm more of a sinner  
> I don't wanna lose, but I fear for the winners  
> When I tried to explain, the words ran away"

When they come back it’s to a house that looks familiar, but does not hold the same kind of feeling of _home_ that the old compound used to ignite in them. Everything looks vaguely familiar, but not in the way it used to be. It feels more like the first time they set foot on the training compound Tony had financed for them. The same sense of cold detachment and clinical stillness that they slowly made into a home. This, Steve thinks with a grimace, is nothing like home.

They haven’t had a sense of _home_ since Avengers Tower. Since before Ultron.

“Welcome,” a voice says from overhead. There is nothing in it that sparks a sense of recognition in the current occupants of the room. It is nothing like the voice of JARVIS, their old companion, welcoming them all by name. It doesn’t even have the cheerful Irish lilt, the one that sent a pang through Steve’s chest as he remembered smoke-filled living rooms and gossip by a clothesline, that they had become accustomed to in the months after their disastrous sojourn in Sokovia.

No, this sounds more like the lady in Sam’s old phone. Suri or whatever its name was. That same old pre-recorded, repetitive voice that merely regurgitated information at you. It was nothing like the beauty and amazement that the AI’s they’d known brought with them. Steve drops his duffle bag at his side, and turns his head to meet Nat’s gaze. The others have begun to trace the space; Clint’s gaze goes to the television set and his jaw locks at the lack of consoles. Sam disappears down a side corridor, and a moment later reappears with a haunted look on his face. Wanda runs her fingertips over the top of a couch that lacks any sort of colorful woven throw. Scott and Bucky, the only ones without a connection to the place, drop onto a couch. Scott promptly begins snoring. Bucky merely sits at the end of the couch cushion as he surveys the place.

              “This feels…” Sam trails off with that same furrow between his eyebrows.

              “Strange,” Wanda finishes softly. She looks around the room, and Steve immediately knows that she won’t find what she seeks. They’d been informed that the rest of the Avengers team were not on the premises at the moment.

“Well,” Steve says and claps his hand. Despite the awful feeling in his chest, they can’t stand around and brood. They should be getting themselves settled if they were to stay, or talk options. He forces himself to keep the grimace off his face as he thinks about the loops they’d have to jump through if they wanted to leave the Compound. “We should get ourselves settled. We can start by looking for our rooms.”

“Living quarters location, activated,” the same coldly detached voice says again. Next thing they know, the coffee table has lit up with a schematic of the compound’s architecture. It makes Bucky jump back in surprise, and Natasha puts a hand on his shoulder to keep him in place. They all move forward to take a look at it.

 _Red,_ is the first thing that Rogers notices. So much of it. Rooms labeled as the armory and the laboratories and something intriguingly called the _Private Sector_. He narrows his eyes at the west wing, with the words _Living Quarters, Garage II, Communal Rooms, and Training Center_. Those are lit up in Blue. In the _Living Quarters_ there are about ten suites. There is one with each of their name’s, he heaves out a sigh of relief when he sees his is next to Bucky’s, and are color coded. He doesn’t know what to see about his, with its black background and blocky white letters and while everyone else’s are labeled by their code names his simply says _Rogers_. He glances up and sees the others looking at the floor plans of their rooms, except for Bucky, who is riveted in the empty ones.

“Buck?” Steve prompts, and the man looks up at him slowly.

“He’s not in these,” he says slowly. With the index finger of his metal hand, he points at the schematics. “These are all of us, plus Rhodes and the Vision. There is a room labeled as a visiting room for someone called Spider-Man, but there’s no—“

“Stark,” Sam says quietly. His eyes scan the plans again, as though he’d missed it, but he doesn’t see it. Steve looks, too, his heart pounding in his chest. He even looks through all the rooms in red, but his name is not on there. “Maybe he’s back at the tower with Pepper.”

“He sold it, remember?” Wanda says quietly.

“Plus, last I read on those trashy tabloids while I was doing recon, they’re not together anymore. There was that proposal, remember?” Natasha says.

Steve winces and tries to block the images out his head. One night, while he clutched the burner phone on one hand, and leaned against the table with the other he had gone hunting for any sort of information that he could on his former teammate. He’d been slapped right across the face with the headlines of Tony’s proposal. Worse, still, was the photos of the aftermath. The look on Pepper’s face as she shook her head, and the devastation that even with the tinted glasses Tony wasn’t able to hide. The plastic smiles on both their faces as they apologized for wasting the press’s time and walked out. That had been a few days before Steve’s hunt for information. From then on, there were merely canned words from Pepper as they caught her going to her house, or the sound of repulsors as Tony vehemently refused to answer any questions.

Yes, he doubts Tony and Pepper are rooming together at the moment.

And it wasn’t as though the man had many places to call home, really. Malibu was destroyed, and Rhodes, they had been informed, was living in the compound with Vision. He was merely out for the weekend to visit with his parents before they could start training on Monday. Pepper was very obviously out of the question, and Steve doubted the kid in spandex had any place to offer him. So where could he possibly have gone? Where was the engineer calling home these days? The Compound was the only place he had left.

 _But this isn’t home,_ Steve tried not to let the sadness of that thought consume him, though he knew it was true. How could Tony call the Compound home after all the bad memories associated with it? Wasn’t that the reason he must have sold the tower? Too many ghosts crawling around there to make anyone’s night agreeable. And now, the compound that he’d built from the ground up, haunted by the same ghosts that didn’t seem to leave him alone. Steve curled his hands into fists and willed them to stop shaking.

“Okay, so we know where we’re going. How about we break and agree to meet at,” he looked down at his watch and noticed it was near four thirty in the afternoon. “Six for supper. We can raid the kitchen—“

“There’s nothing there,” Sam said and the same kind of haunted look came into his eyes.

“Well,” Steve finally managed after an awkward silence. “We can order in. You all heard, Coulson,” the name tasted bitter on his tongue. It wasn’t merely the surprise on finding that SHIELD had lied to them, _again_ , but the blatant hostility the man had greeted the entire group with. It had felt, again, like another nail added to their coffin. “We’ve got food and board covered.”

“For now, until Stark’s _generosity_ runs out,” Wanda sneered.

Once again, like so many times before when one of his teammates said something scathing about Iron Man, Steve felt unease curl in his stomach. He had to bite his tongue to refute it, call out the evidence that clearly Tony was still thinking of them, and merely nod. He avoided their gazes, but couldn’t avoid Bucky’s. The man’s dark eyes looked into his, and not for the first time, Steve caught a bare hint of disapproval. The man looked away and got to his feet before the blond could confirm it, though. Steve heaved a sigh and nodded to the others. They left Scott where he was, figuring he wouldn’t wake before they were back, and made their way to their rooms slowly.

When he reached his room, Bucky silently shouldered his bag and closed the door firmly behind him. Steve stared at the dark wooden barrier between himself and his best friend and closed his eyes. He took a moment to center himself before continuing to his. His hand, he noticed, was shaking when he reached out to grab the knob. It was the only one that had a knob, and a key hanging from it, and he had to swallow the sudden lump in his throat.

 _He still remembers._ It had been such a stupid conversation, so damn long ago, when he and Tony had been sitting on the communal kitchen at three in the morning with a carton of ice cream open between them. Tony had been coming out of one of his engineering binges and Steve had had a visit from his old friend insomnia. Tony had been subtly trying to dig for information about what had kept him up. It was something he did whenever he caught the soldier up, which was unerringly often, and had become quite good at it. Steve had found himself talking about all the things that seemed so strange, _beyond his wildest imaginings_ , is what he said, if only to hear his friend laugh. Somehow, he’d started talking about doorknobs of all things.

Next time he was out on a mission, he’d come back to find his key card reader off his door and an honest to God wooden door on its place. It was dark cherry wood, and there was a brass key hanging from the knob and a knocker and peephole at eye level with Steve. He’d stood there, mouth agape as Natasha continued to her room with a snort, and then he’d laughed. He’d laughed, and _laughed_ , until he found it in himself to ask JARVIS to call Tony up wherever he was and had gotten to hear the richness of Tony’s voice and the smile he couldn’t see.

There’s no hint of laughter now. There’s only that tight ball of emotion in his chest that hasn’t eased since he left Tony and only seemed to grow bigger the closer he came to home. He turns the key and pushes the door in. He holds his breath as he steps into the room, and feels it leave his lungs as though someone punched him in the solar plexus. Everything looks exactly as he’d left his old room. And oh… oh God, there are the doodles from his office hanging on a corkboard. There’s an easel off in an alcove to the side where he can look out onto the grounds. There are his sketchbooks stacked neatly on a side table.

Worse of all, in the middle of his bed on top of the cheap fitted sheets he bought from Costco because they felt more familiar, there was his shield.

He drops his duffle in surprise and makes his way to the bed on limbs that feel as shaky as a new born colt’s. He can’t make his fingers stop shaking as he reaches out a hand to trace around one the edge. There are no scratches on it anymore. There’s no dents or—the blood has been wiped clean of it. He sucks in a deep breath, and it goes out as a sob.

He doesn’t drop to his knees until he reads what’s on the post-it note right on top of the star.

_It’s yours._

_I was never worthy of holding it._

_-T S_

_***_

In the weeks they have been back, they have all tried to reestablish their routines. After a couple frosty days, Vision and Wanda are back making meals together. Scott and Clint spend their days training, watching trash television, or talking to their families. Scott has left a few times to visit with his daughter. Clint has had no luck convincing Laura to let him do the same. Natasha spends her days with them, polishing her knives, or out about the city. Steve knows she’d missed New York almost as much as he had. Him, Sam and Bucky quickly establish a routine running together or training in the early morning. Sam, after some mysterious donation and a few strings pulled, is back at the VA doing what he considers his duty. Bucky is usually attending his mandatory therapy sessions or out with Natasha or circling around the library trying to find something else to read. Rhodes still won’t spend much of his time with them, and often disappears _somewhere_ after meals or training sessions.

Steve spends his days drawing, or when that becomes too much with all the whiskey eyes and well-trimmed goatees he seems to have gotten stuck in, trying to push the boundaries of his access as much as he can. Especially late at night, when the sound of metal on metal and the words _did you know?!_ Don’t let him sleep, he roams around the compound in his pajamas. More often than not he finds himself being redirected back to the Blue zones by a clinical voice that turns his stomach. It’s in one these trips that he makes his discovery.

“Captain Rogers,” a painfully familiar voice tells him as he approaches a previously unexplored hallway. “You have been made aware of the restrictions to your access. I know my— _counterpart_ has redirected you in multiple occasions. I must urge you to limit your late night excursions to your quarters or I will be forced to forcibly keep you away.”

“FRIDAY,” he says and he can’t keep the fervor from his voice. “It’s good to hear your voice.”

“I wish I could say the same,” her voice says and Steve is amazed to find her accent thickens as a human’s would. “Please redirect to your quarters.”

“Why now?” He presses. He has been wandering around for weeks, and this is the first time she has spoken to him. His heart begins to pound on his chest as he speculates the whys. There was a time, long before his world crashed around his ears again, when he’d been given the silent treatment by JARVIS. Solid three weeks of radio silence after he and Tony had gotten in a screaming match that had turned _ugly_ until Tony had looked up at him with something broken in his eyes before delivering one last painful jab at Steve and walking out of the room. JARVIS had been instructed to keep mum to him until—until he’d been needed because his creator was in danger of braining himself if he didn’t sleep. “He’s here,” he breathes now.

“Captain—“FRIDAY tries once again, and there is the barest hint of panic in her voice.

“Tony has been here the whole time. That’s why—that’s what the red zones mean, isn’t it?” he smacks his forehead as he realizes something. “ _Private Quarters_ , that’s where he is. That’s where Rhodes and Viz go and why Spider-Man doesn’t need his room in our wing. Tony is _here._ ”

“Yes,” FRIDAY says curtly. “As a founding member of the Avengers Initiative and sole benefactor of the team he is allowed to take residence wherever he so—“

“Hey whoa, whoa,” Steve says as she gains momentum. He is horrified to realize that the AI had thought he was _angry_ that Tony was in the compound. That Tony still called this place his home. “FRIDAY, _no_ ,” he says vehemently. He feels the sudden need to break something. “That’s not what I meant at all. I’ve been trying to find a way to get in touch with him. I just—Rhodes and Viz won’t tell us anything, and the Spider kid gets so quiet whenever I ask. FRIDAY, please, I just—I need to know if he’s okay. I’ve been—I’ve seen the news, and I just—he’s always acting like he’s fine even when he’s not and Rhodey has been looking so stressed lately and I just—“

“Captain Rogers, temporary access, granted,” FRIDAY’s voice says and the door separating him from the corridor suddenly opens. He stands there, mute, as he looks at the dimly lit corridor. “Sir is running simulations down this hall.”

Steve takes a fortifying breath and slowly makes his way to the end of the corridor. He takes a right at FRIDAY’s prompting and comes to face another wall. This is solid reinforced glass, and on the other side of the door is the great Tony Stark. Only he doesn’t look as sharp or debonair as his picture on the cover of Time magazine. He’s barefoot in threadbare jeans and a black singlet. He’s running hands through his hair that even from his position Steve can see trembling.

Though the glass is reinforced, and he knows it, Steve can still hear Tony’s voice. Sometimes the goddamn curse coursing through his veins is actually helpful. He stands there, wide eyed, as Tony shakes his head sharply and makes a rolling motion with his hand. He’s wearing some kind of glasses that wrap around his head and light up with a faint blue light. “Roll it again.”

“Boss,” FRIDAY’s wary voice comes.

“I said roll it again,” Tony says forcefully.

“It has been thirty nine hours since—“

“ _I said again, damn it!”_ Tony yells and the AI falls silent.

Steve swallows thickly as he watches Tony stand there, surrounded by nothing but his machines, and looking close to breaking. He’s swaying a little bit where he stands, and the arm wrap around his middle and the one he brings to wipe his face are shaking. Steve tries to figure out what is going on and is growing more concerned by the minute as Tony just stands there, before the room around the genius flickers. Steve blinks, and the next thing he knows the room has changed.

It has changed to the scenery of Steve’s more recent nightmares.

In a blink, he has a spectator’s view of that god forsaken bunker in Siberia. And there are two Tony’s in the room. One in jeans and a ratty shirt, skinnier and paler than he remembers, and the other fully suited in the Iron Man armor and with bruises marring his face. One glaring purple-black ringing one of his big, brown eyes. _Eyes that can’t hide anything,_ Steve thinks as he remembers the pain and betrayal he’d seen the last time they were face to face. And there is another Steve Rogers. This one in a darker uniform than Steve remembers, and an expression on his face he doesn’t recognize. It’s not—it’s not serious; it’s worse. It’s uncaring.

 _Did you know_? The Tony in the suit says.

 _No! Tony, no, of course not!_ The mirage Steve says.

 _You didn’t know it was him?_ _Steve, are you—when the DC stuff happened—_

 _Tony, of course I didn’t know it was him. Zemo’s just—_ mirage Steve is almost convincing. If it weren’t for the quick glance he throws to the side.

“Cut, stop, take it off,” the real Tony says with a trembling voice. With slow steps, he approaches mirage Steve and scrutinizes him. “This isn’t—it can’t—he lies better than that,” Tony finally says and the real Steve closes his eyes and wills the tears away. _God._ “Start sim again.”

 _Did you know?_ The Tony in the suit says.  

 _Yes_ , the other Steve says. No hesitation. No remorse.

Steve watches as Tony, his Tony in the ratty shirt, does a full body jerk at that.

 _Why didn’t you tell me?!_ The suited Tony says. There’s desperation and betrayal raw on his voice.

 _It wasn’t the time. We needed you stable for the team. It wouldn’t have done you any good to know._ The other Steve says, and the real one jerks on the other side of the glass. He brings a fist up to the glass separating him from the scene but can’t bang on it as he wishes to do. He can’t let Tony send him away. Not now when he knows that this, _this_ , is what the genius does to himself every night.

 _Please tell me that’s not the truth. Please, please, tell me you know I would never do that. Please, Tony, please tell me you know I care too much for you to do that. Tony—_ the mantra runs frantic circles in his mind the longer he watches the memory play out in front of him. His eyes never leave Tony. Not when he cuts that particular scenario, or when he starts the next, or the next, or the _next_. He forces himself to stand there, a solid rock Tony can’t see and obviously thinks he can’t have, as the genius continues to run every possibility he can think of for that bloody disastrous day.

The simulations go over and over and over again. Steve drops to his haunches on the other side of the glass as he watches. Tony moves to one of the nearby worktables when he tires of standing, but the sims don’t stop. One after the other, and it hurts, it goddamn breaks Steve’s heart, the more desperate Tony becomes. It’s been minutes or hours or days when Tony screams on the other side of the glass, a sound that bring goosebumps to Steve’s arms at how desperate and agonized it sounds, and shoves at the table in front of him.

“ _Stop!”_ he calls out desperately. He cards his fingers through his hair and holds on to his head. From where Steve’s sitting, it looks as though the genius is trying to keep his skull in one piece. He leans both hands on the glass, his vision blurry by tears, as he watches.

 _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry, Tony, I’m so sorry_ , he thinks over and over again.

Tony shoves at the table again, he makes heartbreaking hitching noises with every breath he takes, and rips the glasses off his face. “Just give me something!” he calls out desperately. Steve jumps, thinking he’s been discovered, but Tony is leaning with his hands on the worktable and his eyes on the floor. “Please, I never ask you for anything. I just—I just need to _sleep_ for a few goddamn hours without _this_ constant _bullshit_ running through my mind. Please, just give me something. I’m begging you, just a few hours,” he says quietly.

 He stares, wide eyed and shaking, as Tony’s shoulders shake as he finally breaks.

 _Everyone prays in the end, Steven. When they’re finally broken. When they hit rock bottom. Everyone prays in the end,_ his Ma had told him once after mass. It had been ’34 or ’35 and men with good looking suits were sitting on the sidewalks with their heads in their hands. When women who’d once been pretty stood on the streets, holding babies to their hips, trying to send whatever they had while their husbands went off to wherever they needed to find a job.

Tony, on the other side of the glass, slowly falls to his knees. He hits the ground with a whack! Of bone on linoleum and bows his head. He grabs hold of his head and holds tight. Those same gasping noises hitching out of his throat. On his side, Steve does the same. Both hands on the glass as he struggles to take an even breath and his insides churn with guilt.

              That’s how they stay. Both on their knees; broken, alone and afraid.


End file.
